


Like Monkeys Do

by broadlicnic



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, Mystery, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadlicnic/pseuds/broadlicnic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the events of TTSS, Peter Guillam is having a terrible holiday in Paris. Except he's not really on holiday, he's on a mission. To find Ricki Tarr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows film-verse. Despite the misleading title, monkeys are irrelevant.

_If I know you, you’ll bang the drum like monkeys do._

Subtlety was not one of Ricki Tarr’s strong points, and for that he was severely punished. Of course, Tarr, with his brash confidence and characteristic swagger, always got the job done. And that same Tarr was the reason all worked out in the end (well, aside from the touchy subject of Jim Prideaux’s mental state).

But Irina was dead, because she spoke to Ricki Tarr. The man could not be blamed for that fact; Irina had approached him. But, if Tarr had conducted himself in a manner befitting the Circus, perhaps the finger of suspicion wouldn’t have pointed her way.

At least, that’s what Peter Guillam told himself. Their failure to catch the mole in time was not to blame.

The streets of Paris were quiet as Peter took his 4am stroll. It was the 2nd of January, a whole year after Haydon’s death, and the majority of citizens were likely still sleeping off the wine and debauchery of the New Year festivities. Peter had spent that night alone in his motel room, with a brief call from Smiley and a longer one from Fawn to wish him well. Richard hadn’t called – despite a whole year of Peter trying to reconnect with him – but then, Richard had no idea where he was. Still, Fawn, who was tending to his London home in his absence, hadn’t passed on any messages.

Fawn. Peter let out a happy sigh at the thought of him, and watched as his breath escaped into the icy air. He was a good man, and proving himself to be his greatest confidante in The Circus. (There was no point confiding in Smiley, he’d already know.) The fact that Fawn even knew about Richard spoke volumes about how their friendship had grown in those claustrophobic weeks in Control’s apartment. If only Fawn had been here, they could have raised a toast to the New Year and Peter wouldn’t be stood here contemplating things that were no longer his concern.

Which brought him back to Ricki Tarr. Peter would be lying if he were to say he wasn’t hoping to bump into him during his trip. Despite any personal dislike for the man, he had been instrumental in bringing down Haydon, and the least he could do was apologise. Smiley and Peter had sent Tarr away to find Irina, knowing full well that she was dead, but with no confirmation but Prideaux’s description, Smiley insisted it was not their place to say. For once, Peter disagreed.

Early morning introspection was becoming something of a routine to Peter, who found he couldn’t sleep in his motel. (The reminders of sneaking around in motel rooms during the early days of his relationship with Richard were too strong.) Most of the thoughts faded after his third pot of coffee to keep him going, but one lingered. Had Smiley sent him here on purpose? Smiley had been the one to suggest Paris for Peter’s holiday, and before leaving he had heard him say to Fawn that Tarr was still valuable to them. Was finding Tarr his mission all along?

Often, he’d dismiss the theory. Smiley trusted Peter above almost anyone, and would have no issue with briefing Peter fully. Unless the location of Tarr was to be untraceable to the Circus, and Peter seeking him out of his own free will was to guarantee that. That would imply that Smiley knew Peter wanted to see him, which would come as no surprise to Peter. Unlike Tarr, Smiley was subtle.

Peter paused his stroll to lean back against a lamppost, slipped off a glove and lit up a cigarette. This was exactly where things would come to a halt. He’d formulate this theory, convince himself he would start the hunt for Tarr after some sleep, and then when the realisation that he had no idea how to locate him kept him awake all night, he’d dismiss the theory as ludicrous and realise Smiley merely wanted him to rest up after a difficult year. Who was to say Tarr was still in Paris, anyway?

Peter took another drag of the cigarette and continued walking. He listened to the snow crunch beneath his shoes, and used his free hand to brush newly fallen flakes out of his hair. The combination of cigarette smoke and his cool breath traced a ladder through the air, and Peter followed its path to gaze up at a dark, cloudy sky. Flakes fell against his eyelashes, obscuring his vision momentarily, and then Peter remembered something Smiley had said to him before he left, something he had forgotten until now.

“Remember Peter, don’t bang the drum.”

 _Don’t bang the drum_. What on earth was that supposed to mean, if not perform this task with care? Don’t draw attention to yourself. Find Tarr and bring him home safely.

He was pulled out of his reverie by the muffled sounds of drunken French as he rounded a corner. Very few places in this part of Paris stayed open this late, and Peter suspected this place may be doing so illegally. It was a small, inconspicuous looking spot in the daylight, with only a small sign distinguishing it from the other buildings. At night, though, it came to life. Bright light shone through dirty windows, highlighting the snowy path before it, littered with cigarette butts and footprints leading to and from the door. The cacophony of sound usually hit Peter long before he turned the corner, but the relative calm this night, Peter put down to the date. A string of Christmas lights adorned the windows, half broken, yet more flickering, and Peter found it quite charming. He’d never set foot inside before, but his nose was stinging from the cold, and his French was decent enough, given his father’s nationality. Why not treat himself to a drink or two? It could help him sleep.

Stepping into the bar was like walking into a wall of silence. The raucous chatter from outside descended into quiet stares as the door shut behind Peter. Dozens of eyes fell on him, most fixing their stare unsteadily, given the alcohol. Peter couldn’t help but feel he’d made an incredible _faux pas_. Only locals welcome here.

The silence stretched on for minutes in Peter’s mind, but in reality it could only have been a few seconds. He huffed out a little chuckle and stepped towards the bar. Around him, the locals were returning to their conversations and merriment, none of them bothering to acknowledge Peter’s presence further. Of course, their surprise was only that somebody had entered so late. The majority of patrons were probably expecting the police.

At the bar, Peter ordered a whiskey to warm himself up. He ordered in perfectly-phrased French, but his pronunciation had become less convincing through lack of use. The bartender raised an eyebrow and regarded Peter for a moment, before fetching the drink.

“On me,” the bartender said in heavily-accented English as he set down the glass. “You English?”

“Yes,” Peter replied, removing his gloves once again to grip the glass.

“My wife is from Somerset. You know it?”

“I do,” Peter said. He threw back his whiskey, feeling it burn along his throat, and shivered. “Another, please. And an ale.”

The bartender fetched his order as Peter clambered onto a barstool. He wasn’t sure just how many francs he had in his pocket, but he got the impression this place wouldn’t mind if you were a little short.

“There was an Englishman here two days ago,” the bartender said. “Very nice man. You know him?”

“Probably not,” Peter said. “I came here alone.” He took a sip of his ale. It tasted off, like the pipes needed cleaning. “I’m looking for a friend.”

“This man, could he not be the friend?”

“I doubt it.” Peter shook his head. “It’d be too much of a coincidence that I happen to end up in the same pub.”

“Coincidences do happen,” the bartender said.

“Yes, you’re right,” Peter said. “But my friend isn’t a very nice man.”

The bartender was distracted then, returning to serve his patrons, and Peter turned his attention back to his drink. He sipped the ale slowly, trying not to pull a face at the taste in case the bartender noticed. He thought back on the bartender’s words. Yes, it was too much of a coincidence that the other Englishman would be Ricki Tarr, especially just as Peter had convinced himself that this was what Smiley wanted. But from the way he spoke, Peter got the impression that he and the other man were the only non-regulars to set foot inside for a long time. And this did seem like the kind of establishment Ricki Tarr would end up in. His French was good enough to mix with the locals, and the late opening hours suited Tarr perfectly. But the coincidence was just too unlikely. It felt a little like cheating, that finding Tarr would be so easy. Who was to say Tarr hadn’t returned to Istanbul to find Irina, even if it did mean endangering his life?

He was starting to get a headache, and the alcohol was doing little to alleviate his restlessness. He left the last dregs of the horrendous ale in the glass and downed his whiskey, leaving all the change in his pocket on the bar in an effort to not attract the bartender’s attention again. He’d reached the door when he heard a voice call out to him.

“My friend, if the man returns, should I mention you?” the bartender asked.

Peter turned. “Ask him if he remembers Peter. And tell him to smile.”


	2. Chapter 2

The crisp winter air filtered in through a small crack in the window as Peter lay motionless on the motel bed. He was still dressed in his suit from the night before, his coat and scarf scattered on the floor. He hadn’t even removed his gloves. He just pushed his head back against the hard pillows and waited for a rest which never came.

He’d walked away slowly from the bar in those early hours, shuffling his feet through snow and shivering as ice melted inside his shoes, a numbness in his toes. He needed sleep now, for the sake of his own health and sanity, and had considered dropping down right there in the street, letting the snow be his mattress and the pleasant numbness engulf him. But he’d kept walking. Insomnia hadn’t made him lose his capacity to function yet.

Peter wasn’t far from his motel when the sun had risen, and he’d watched it crawl above the buildings in a daze. It almost blinded him, low and bright in an icy, now-cloudless sky, but he’d squinted and continued watching until black dots appeared in his vision.

Now he lay on his bed, noon sun pouring in through his window, and stared at the ceiling. Sleep was still a long way off, and Peter got the impression that he wouldn’t get any reprieve from his restless exhaustion until he’d made significant steps in locating Ricki Tarr. He tried to convince his tired mind that his meeting the bartender was substantial progress, but it was nothing more than idle chatter with a man desperate to practice his English.

At 1pm, he pushed up from the mattress, ran a gloved hand through his knotted hair, and let out a deep, frustrated groan. He stumbled over to the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went. He turned to the bathroom mirror, cracked down the left side, and took in his appearance. Dark circles made his eyes look sunken, and his cheekbones more prominent. His nose was red from the cold, and his lips chapped and broken. He saw how his shoulders slumped in exhaustion, his arms hanging heavily at his sides. Then he moved to the cracked glass and saw how his appearance changed. His face split, broken into shards all trying to escape from the unity of his weathered form. His left eye was divided from his nose, the glass missing where his right eye should be. He was transfixed by this visual representation of his fractured mind, so much so that he didn’t realise he was shaking until his knees buckled beneath him, his vision growing darker, and his naked body slammed against cold tile.

~~~  
He wasn’t out long, maybe two minutes, but the collapse did alleviate his shaking. He gripped the side of the bathtub, pulling himself to his feet and wincing at the ache in his left shoulder. He looked in the right side of the mirror. The skin on his shoulder was already beginning to bruise from hitting the floor, but he was otherwise unharmed. He hadn’t hit his head, or at least no injuries were apparent, and his vision was clear. His feet felt steady and his mind was a little less hazy. Things must have been bad if he could feel the benefits of just two minutes of rest.

After assuring himself he’d be okay, Peter turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up, and stepped underneath the spray. He turned the temperature gage to as hot as his body could stand, and let the water do its work. About a minute later, he felt warm enough to wash himself, starting with his hair, working down past his shoulders (taking extra care with his right), down his torso, his thighs and legs, and finally back up to his penis. He hadn’t been hard for a while now, his only erections since throwing Richard out being whenever Peter dreamt of him. But Peter hadn’t dreamt since he arrived in Paris, and his penis hung there, flaccid. Like it was mocking him. He tried to maintain an air of nonchalance as he washed it, but for whose benefit, he wasn’t sure.

After showering, he towelled himself dry, brushed his hair, and crawled back into bed. His earlier collapse gave him renewed hope for sleep, and with that hope came determination. After a few hours kip, he’d give Fawn a call, and try to get some definite answers about what he was meant to be doing here. After that, he’d call on an old friend at The Circus’ Paris headquarters, the last place Tarr had been spotted. And then maybe he’d return to the bar, on the off-chance the bartender did prove to be useful. Peter smiled, and squeezed his eyes shut.

~~~  
 _“Hello, Mr Guillam, sorry I took so long to come back.”_  
If not for the persistent whistle of wind through the cracked window, Peter might have convinced himself that the memory was actually a dream, and that he’d had some rest. Instead, he lay awake but with eyes closed, and let that first meeting between him and Tarr at Control’s apartment play over and over in his head. And more than anything, he just wanted to be back in London. Whatever George wanted to find Tarr for, the atmosphere between them was still so volatile he can’t have thought Peter was the right person for the job.

Pulling himself up to a sitting position, Peter rubbed at his eyes, took in a deep breath and lifted the receiver of the telephone on his bedside table. He’d had Fawn’s number memorised for months now, and a certain calm enveloped him as he dialled. Fawn was a good man, and would help him relax.

“Hello?”

“It’s Peter.” His voice sounded rough from misuse, just as broken and crackled at Fawn’s did down the line.

“Well hello, Peter! How are you enjoying France?”

“Honestly? I’m not. I haven’t slept in days, my motel is an absolute dive and I’m tired of spending every day in my own company.” Peter felt the tension in his shoulders subside and a warmth spread through his body. Admitting how miserable he was felt so good.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Peter. But at least you’re not working.” The tone of Fawn’s voice made it clear that he wished he was the one in Paris.

“Aren’t I? Don’t you think there was a reason Smiley insisted I took my holiday in Paris?”

“Maybe he wanted you to feel more connected to your French heritage.” Fawn said, his voice light and mocking.

“That’s a load of bollocks. I’m supposed to do something here, aren’t I?”

“Peter, I-“

“He wants me to find Ricki Tarr.”

“Listen, Peter. You do have a bit of a task to complete in Paris, but George really did want you to have a break before you began.”

And days of stress and speculation rose from the pit of Peter’s stomach, up to the back of Peter’s throat, and it burned. Holding the fire back was so intense. He just had to let the explosion happen. “Does he want me to find Tarr?”

“You overheard us, didn’t you?”

“Why now? It’s been a year.”

“Tarr contacted Smiley early in December. He said he’d been hiding in Paris under a fake name, but he’d still been looking for Irina and he appears to have made quite a bit of noise about it.”

“That doesn’t come as much of a surprise.”

“He’s a bit of a bull in a china shop, is Tarr,” Fawn said with a laugh. “Anyway, Tarr was only calling to see if we knew anything about Irina. We didn’t say anything, of course. That’s not the sort of news one delivers over the telephone. Given everything, George thinks the safest place for him would be back in London, where we can keep an eye on him. The only trouble is –“

Peter twisted the telephone cord around his finger. “He didn’t tell you where he is.”

“Exactly. We know that he was still in Paris in December, and we know his alias: James Smith. We can’t be sure he doesn’t have any other aliases, but that is the name he gave us.”

Peter didn’t bother to write down the name, it was easy enough to remember. “Anything else?”

“I’ve already contacted our base in Paris, and they haven’t heard from Tarr since the night we caught Haydon. I assume you were considering contacting them,” Fawn said.

“Indeed.”

“They may still be useful in tracking down James Smith, so I wouldn’t rule them out entirely.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Peter went to set down the receiver, not willing to chat about home or the Circus – or if Richard had been in touch – with this new information swamping his mind. But Fawn’s voice captured his attention once more.

“Peter, you are looking after yourself out there, aren’t you? You said you weren’t sleeping.”

“I’ll be fine,” Peter lied. “I just need to stop thinking so much.”

“Call me whenever you like. And when George calls next week to give you all this information, try to act surprised.”

“One look at your face, and George will know you told me.”

Fawn laughed, and Peter set down the receiver. He rubbed one hand over his tired eyes, groaned, and pushed himself upright. His still-naked body was covered in goose-bumps, and Peter hurried to dress himself. He fixed his tie while looking in the mirror (the one inside the wardrobe door, not that terrible shattered image of himself in the bathroom) and recounted everything he knew about Ricki Tarr.

This time last month, Tarr was still in Paris. It would be safe to assume he had been living in Paris the whole year. Perhaps this was a meeting spot he’d arranged with Irina, otherwise what would stop him touring Europe in search of her?

Peter slipped on his jacket and coat, then picked up his scarf and gloves from their scattered places on the floor. Tarr would have needed somewhere to live, and Smiley made sure Tarr left with enough money to rent a place. Would he have used his James Smith alias on his lease? It was worth checking with a few landlords. And he would call back in on that bartender, ask him if James Smith was one of his patrons after all.

But first, he needed some food.


	3. Chapter 3

During his short time in Paris, Peter had grown to love a small café a few streets away from his motel. The food was delicious, but the place was small and unimpressive. Very few people knew it was there and quite often Peter would be their only customer. For the owners it was frustrating, but Peter liked its solitude. The place functioned as a metaphor for his profession, with its secrecy and isolation. It comforted Peter to know there was a place for him in this city.

This night, however, he wasn’t alone. The café was still quiet, but four other tables were occupied. One table housed six young American tourists: loud, excitable and chatty 20-somethings who were drawing distain from the elderly couple at the next table over. This couple Peter recognised as the owner’s parents, who had dined here three times since Peter discovered the place, and acknowledged him with a polite nod when he entered. At the third table sat the owner’s son, schoolwork spread over the patterned tablecloth, and at the last, a single gentleman. He sat with his back to Peter, reading a book and sipping his coffee. Peter couldn’t stop staring at his hair, so similar was it to Ricki Tarr’s.

But it wasn’t Ricki Tarr. Finding him so easily would have been both ridiculous and embarrassing.

His attention was dragged away from Tarr’s double by a portly gentleman – the café’s owner – taking his empty plate away.

“Would you like dessert?” he asked.

“Just a coffee,” Peter replied.

At the sound of Peter’s voice, Tarr’s doppelganger turned in his seat.

“Are you English?” the man asked, and Peter cursed himself for not speaking in French to the owner during his visits. It wasn’t like he couldn’t, hell, he even had a French father. He had a lifetime of practise in blending in, thanks to his upbringing. Why were these instincts abandoning him now?

By the time Peter had recovered from his thoughts, the man had settled into the chair opposite him.

“English, yes…” Peter mumbled as the man settled in.

“My name’s Luc,” he said. “I’m Canadian, but I live here now.”

“I’m Peter,” Peter said quietly.

“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Luc said, sticking out his hand for Peter to shake. Peter couldn’t help but smile. The man’s brash confidence reminded him so much of Tarr that Peter had to search his face and check this wasn’t really him using another alias. But despite the hair and attitude, Luc’s build was too slight, his face too angular, and neither he nor Peter had punched the other yet.

Tentatively, Peter took Luc’s hand and shook it. Luc’s hand was warm against Peter’s cold skin, and the grip on his handshake firm. Peter didn’t want to let that heat escape, but the handshake had gone on longer than was customary already, so Peter released Luc’s hand and waited for the coffee to arrive and warm him up.

“Do you live here?” Luc asked.

“Just visiting,” Peter said. “My father was French, though.”

“Oh,” Luc said. “So what leads a man to holiday in Paris alone?”

Peter decided to be as vague as possible. The reason he was here was something he couldn’t disclose. Any other explanations for being alone… well, then he would have to explain Richard.

“I’m looking for a friend.”

“You mean you’re looking for a particular person, or just for companionship?” Luc laughed, and after a beat Peter joined in, as a gesture of politeness.

“A particular friend,” Peter said. “I haven’t seen him for a year, but I heard he’s here in Paris.”

“Well, I may not be able to help you there,” Luc said, “but I can offer you companionship if you like.”

The owner set down Peter’s coffee, took a long look at Luc, and raised an eyebrow. Peter shook his head as discreetly as he could, but Luc didn’t seem to notice.

“That sounded rather awkward, didn’t it?” Luc said, drumming his fingers over the cover of his book. The palm of his hand covered the title. “I was supposed to be meeting somebody tonight, but I think it’s quite clear that didn’t happen.”

Luc glanced over at his now-empty table and rolled his eyes. “I’m having a dreadful night,” he said. “I was only reading this piece of shit book to impress my date. And it looks like you’re having a rough time too.”

“You’re correct,” Peter said. “I am.”

“Here’s what I suggest,” Luc said, leaning forward so that his face was distorted by the flickering candle between them. “Rather than us both sitting here, feeling sorry for ourselves, then going home and jerking off in our lonely beds-“ Peter felt his cheeks flush red, “-we go out, drink our fill of all this lovely French wine and enjoy ourselves.”

Peter didn’t answer, but Luc took his hesitance for agreement. “Drink up,” he said. Peter gulped down the last of his coffee and pulled out his wallet, leaving enough money for a decent tip on the table. He pulled on his overcoat while Luc tossed his book in a nearby bin, and followed him out into the snow.

~~~  
After a reasonable amount of alcohol (okay, more than reasonable. At one point, Peter could see two of Luc and, convinced he’d located Tarr, tried to hail down a taxi for a ride to the airport.) Peter’s body felt warm despite the cold weather. Luc clung to his arm, for stability more than anything, and they left a path of messy footprints and kicked up snow in their wake.

Early in the evening, Peter took Luc to the small tavern, to meet what Peter laughingly thought of as his informant. The bartender looked from Peter to Luc and filled their glasses without a word.

“I see you have a new friend,” the bartender had said.

“Perhaps,” Peter had replied, “but I must not neglect my previous acquaintances.”

Luc had laughed at that point. Peter suspected it was on account of the stuffy language he was using. In the hour he had spent with Luc already, Peter had discovered he was rather crass.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender had said, “your friend has not returned for days.” At that, the bartender leaned in closer. “He mentioned to one of my customers that he lives here in Montparnasse.”

Tarr, or at least the man suspected of being Tarr, was close by. Peter had filed the information away, ready for the morning, and decided to make the most of his night with Luc. This led them to now; stumbling through the deserted streets in the early hours, warm from ale but skin freezing to the touch. Luc was singing an Edith Piaf song – the title of which escaped Peter at that moment – in a voice so loud and boisterous it echoed off the buildings and back into the night air.

They reached Peter’s motel first, Peter assumed, as Luc had never mentioned where he lived. As they approached the door, Peter could hear his bed calling for him, and for the first time he wanted to answer. Luc had other ideas.

“Nightcap?” he asked.

Peter shrugged, the movement already feeling like an effort. Tired as he was, Peter wasn’t ready for the night to end yet. He was, dare he say it, having fun. That rarely happened these days.

Peter answered Luc’s request by opening the door and ushering him inside. They stumbled up the stairs; Luc giggling, Peter hushing him between his own chortles. When they crashed through the door, Peter let himself fall onto the bed and pointed Luc in the direction of a bottle of brandy he’d purchased that morning. He closed his eyes, the sound of clinking glasses and pouring liquid growing more distant as his body sunk further into the mattress. This was it, he’d sleep tonight.

So relaxed was Peter, he’d completely forgotten Luc’s presence. That is, until his guest decided to remind him of it by throwing himself down on the mattress, lying half on top of him on account of the size.

“Pete,” Luc said, lightly shaking Peter’s shoulder. Peter cracked open his eyes, seeing only a blurry image of blond hair and broad shoulders, as if looking at him through a fogged up window.

“Tarr,” Peter said under his breath, though he wouldn’t remember his slip of the tongue in the morning.

“Maybe we should forget that drink,” Luc laughed, his hand travelling from Peter’s shoulder to rest on his chest. “You still tense?”

But Peter’s mind was following hundreds of other scenarios except this one. In seconds, he managed to replay all the nights he lay in bed with Richard, the momentary thrill of seeing Tarr in Control’s apartment before anger took over. He thought of what his reaction would be when he found Tarr again.

And then he felt a hand against his groin.

“I guess you’re a little tense,” Luc laughed, though his eyes were dark, and Peter was pulled back to the present. That hand wasn’t Richard’s, that face wasn’t Tarr’s. This was Luc, a practical stranger. They were both drunk, and both tired, and the heel of Luc’s palm was pressing down against the erection Peter suddenly became aware of, and it felt amazing.

“I can take care of that for you,” Luc said. Peter watched as he licked his bottom lip, slowly and deliberately, and decided in that moment he wanted a taste. He pressed a clumsy hand to the back of Luc’s head, and pulled him down, lips meeting messily. Just the taste of Luc’s mouth was enough to get Peter more intoxicated, and he devoured it. Luc continued to massage Peter through his jeans, and that only encouraged him. Peter’s tongue searched out every recess of Luc’s mouth, pulling Luc so violently close he could feel Luc’s nose hard against his cheekbone. He thrust up into Luc’s palm, and Luc pushed him away.

“Now, now,” Luc admonished, “we’re supposed to be keeping you relaxed.”

Peter let out a whimper, a noise so pathetic he could only make it when drunk and horny, and Luc flashed a wicked grin. His hands dove for Peter’s zipper, yanking down his trousers with enthusiasm, and as the tip of Peter’s cock slipped past Luc’s lips, he threw his head back into the pillow and relaxed.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was that he was waking up. That was a novelty. Second, he noticed the headache, but as he had been sporting an exhaustion headache for days now, his hangover didn’t seem much to be concerned with.

Third, he noticed that he was alone. Well, that didn’t surprise Peter in the slightest. He’d been cottaging a few times, before he’d met Richard, and he understood the appeal of an anonymous fuck. Hell, Luc probably wasn’t his real name.

Still, he dragged himself out of bed, and performed the check. His wallet, passport and belongings were all as he left them, but the brandy had indeed been liberated. Enjoy it, he thought. I have work to do.

He stared at the phone and groaned. Okay, he did feel terrible. His head felt heavy, his mouth a mixture of beer, plaque and semen, and his bladder full. Fine. A piss, a shower and maybe vomiting a few times, and he’d get started.

Mid-piss, Peter’s vision began to clear, and he spotted the note in front of him. He dreaded to think what Luc stuck it to the wall with.

_At café tonight. Repeat? L._

Despite himself, Peter smirked, and his headache began to lift. Minutes later, the warm water of the shower cascades over him, washing away the remnants of the night before. As he soaps himself, his cock grows hard under his touch, and he braces himself against the tiles, teasing, drawing out the experience until the water wrinkles his fingers.

Post-shower, he called Fawn and requested the number of every estate and rental agent, every landlord, in Montparnasse. Tarr could still be staying in a motel, but he couldn’t check everything at once. While he waited for Fawn to call back with the information, he lay back on the mattress, still naked, and trailed his fingers over his bare chest. He closed his eyes and focused on the night before, but when he thought of Luc, he could not remember his face. All he could recall was the hair and the brash confidence and his mind plugged the gap with images of Tarr. Still, he didn’t stop, and as cold, still damp fingers gripped his cock once again, he remembered beating Tarr in Control’s apartment, and the first stirrings of an erection he felt as Tarr spat out blood.

These were the bizarre desires Peter kept hidden, from Richard and from himself, and the rational part of his brain praised Fawn when he called back, interrupting Peter’s fantasies.

“Is everything okay, Peter?” Fawn asked, after passing along the numbers. “You sound out of breath.”

“I’m fine. That will be all, Fawn.”

“Have you slept yet?” Fawn asked.

“I have,” Peter said. “Quite well, in fact. Goodbye Fawn.”

~~~  
With only two numbers left on his list, Peter’s headache returned. He’s searched under James Smith, Ricki Tarr, every alias Tarr used as a scalphunter (that he knew of) and even just searching for Englishmen in general, but each contact had heard nothing, and kept Peter on the line for upwards of half an hour trying to sell him property. Thank goodness the Circus was footing his phone bill.

Still, only two more numbers to call, as useless as they would undoubtedly be, and then his wasted day would be over. The tension was back in his shoulders, his temples throbbed, and nothing was keeping him from returning to the café that night.

If Peter was honest with himself, the search for Tarr was far from his mind all day. Each phone call made it seem more and more hopeless, and his desire had been awakened in a big way. He’d already had to bring himself to climax three times between calls, and each time confused him. Once, he pictured Tarr, another Richard. Third, and most surprisingly, Bill Haydon flooded his fantasies. God, he needed to get back home soon. Return to his routine; let Smiley do all his thinking for him.

The penultimate call rang out, but the final was awakened new hope.

“We have a Jimmy Smith in our books, sir,” the woman on the line, a Scot, told him. “May I ask what this is concerning?”

“I just need his address,” Peter said.

“I’m afraid I can only give that information to the authorities,” she said.

“Please, madam,” Peter said, sitting upright. He struggled to remember one of his aliases that Tarr would recognise. “My name is Thomas Hansen. Jimmy’s my cousin. He’s been estranged from the family for many years, and I need to inform him of his father’s passing.”

“I probably shouldn’t…”

“Please,” Peter forced his voice to catch by pinching his thigh. “The funeral is in a few days and his mother-“

“Okay, hold on sir.”

Peter heard her muttering in French, and a man’s voice reply, though he could only make out a few words. As part of his cover story, he’d chosen to play the part of a clueless Englishman, only speaking French if necessary, and even then, inserting a few deliberate mistakes. The line was not clear enough for Peter to translate the whole conversation, but he definitely heard the word “terminated”.

“Excuse me, Mr…”

“Err…” Damn it, which name did he use again? “Mr Hansen.”

“Yes. I’m afraid Mr Smith’s rental contract terminated two months ago,” the Scot said. “He only took out a six month lease.”

“Oh,” Peter said. He was silent for a moment. “Do…Do you have any idea where he went?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Well, do you have a contact number or something?”

“The only telephone number we have listed is from the apartment in question.”

“Damn it!” Peter snapped, slamming his hand against the bedside table. The pain shot through him like a bullet, and he bit his lip in frustration.

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir, but there really is nothing I can do.”

Peter sighed. “No, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Thank you for your help.”


	5. Chapter 5

No words were exchanged when they met again. When Peter arrived at the café that evening, Luc was already there, sitting at the window table, staring out into the snow with a steaming cup of coffee between his hands. He'd spotted Peter outside, and, without taking a single sip of his coffee, dumped a pile of coins unceremoniously on the table, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and stepped out into the cold.

Outside, nothing was said again. Luc looked up at Peter, slightly taller, through thick eyelashes. Peter merely blinked. Then Luc extended a hand, running his finger along the hem of Peter's jacket. Peter nodded, and they departed. Luc fell into step beside Peter, stretching his legs so that their strides matched, and both men looked straight ahead. This was a different agreement, not borne of misery and drunkenness, but a sober decision. And this time, Peter was going to remember every single moment of it.

His day had been stressful, yes. The hunt for Tarr had proved fruitless, but Luc had awakened in Peter something he hadn't felt in over a year: desire. And that was why he had to remain sober for this. He needed to be careful. The danger of being found to be a homosexual was still secondary to the danger of Luc discovering who he was.

An alias would have been useful, if Peter had only thought of it earlier. Of course, when telling Luc his name, he hadn't expected to be receiving oral pleasure from the man mere hours later.

The memory stirred Peter's desires again, and, noting that the streets were quiet, he grabbed Luc's wrist and hurried their pace back to the motel. They slowed upon reaching the doors, so as not to raise suspicion with the staff, before dashing up the stairs. Luc laughed heartily behind him, but to Peter, this was serious. He unlocked the door with fumbling fingers, threw his keys on the table and turned, pulling Luc into the room by his scarf and pressing him firmly against the door. His mouth was on Luc's at once, tongue pushed so deep inside it was a wonder Luc didn't gag. But then, last night had proven Luc's gag reflex was not much of an issue.

Luc's surprise was only momentary before he responded in earnest, tongue massaging Peter's own, hands stretching over Peter's arse cheeks, pressing Peter's crotch up against his rapidly hardening cock. Peter groaned, low and deep, into Luc's mouth, shifting his hips so that their erections rubbed together. Luc pulled his mouth away, went to speak, but Peter silenced him with another kiss. His accent would break the illusion, because this was Tarr pressed against him, gasping at his touch. Ricki Tarr was submitting to him, and Peter wanted to test him.

Peter pulled at Luc's scarf, tightening it around his neck, and Luc flashed a wicked grin. Yes, this was good. Tarr would not back down from such a challenge, but Tarr would also not allow himself to be dominated without a fight. And Luc was certainly a good replacement. Hands travelling from Peter’s arse to his hips, Luc pushed Peter to the ground, feeling the slam against the hard floor in his bones. Luc knelt over him, legs between Peter’s outstretched thighs, and gripped Peter’s wrists above his head, diving down to suck at Peter’s Adam’s apple. Peter’s back arched with desire, but Luc slammed him back down on the floor again. Peter raised his legs, hooking them over Luc’s hips, and Luc lowered himself so their crotches met. Just as Peter wanted. Using his position, Peter flipped them over so that Luc lay beneath him, once again victim to Peter’s dominance. A bit of roughing up was good for the illusion, but with Tarr, Peter would always be in charge.

Straddled over Luc, Peter began to rotate his hips, cock rubbing against Luc’s through the barrier of fabric, and he set his fingers to work divulging Luc of his jacket and shirt. The scarf, he left around his neck, and used it to pull Luc upright. Still grinding, Peter dipped his head, taking one of Luc’s nipples between his teeth and tugging. Luc’s fingers shook as they removed Peter’s jacket and shirt, at least in part due to the cold, before travelling further south to unfasten Peter’s belt. Peter released his hold on Luc’s nipple and stood, allowing Luc to pull down his trousers and underwear in one fell swoop. Still standing, he ran a thumb over Luc’s lower lip, then took the scarf in his hand again, leading Luc on his knees to the edge of the bed. As the back of Peter’s legs hit the mattress, he sat, legs spread. Luc ran his hands over pale, goose-pimpled thighs before pressing a kiss to Peter’s balls. Peter didn’t touch Luc, just sat and waited as Luc’s tongue massaged his balls, before his lips wrapped around the sac and he began to suck. In this position, much of Luc’s face was obscured. He could see the hair, the lusty dark eyes staring up at him and swollen, kiss-bruised lips. This would do. This looked just right.

The only problem with this situation was that he’d received a blowjob from Luc (or Tarr, as Peter now thought of him) before. Although his memory of the previous night was hazy, there was certainly enough of an imprint there to make this less exciting. No, what Peter needed was a good fuck, to get this all out of his system and get back to work.

He caught Luc’s chin between his thumb and his index finger, and guided Luc’s face so that it was level with his. Luc’s lips were slick with saliva, his eyes wild and dark, and he continued to massage Peter’s thighs as his breath came in sharp pants.

“Do you bottom?” Peter asked, his voice stoic.

“Not usually,” Luc said with a grin.

“Will you?”

Luc said nothing, but the answering flurry of movement indicated his consent. He stood before Peter, hands lazily resting in Peter’s hair, as Peter pulled down Luc’s trousers, pressing a sloppy kiss to Luc’s hipbone. Luc stepped out of the trousers, and Peter trailed a teasing finger along his crack, applying pressure for a moment at his entrance. Luc’s hips bucked at the brief intrusion, and Peter kissed a path up Luc’s sternum. When Peter was again upright, he bypassed Luc’s mouth, moving to stand behind him. He took Luc’s cock in one hand, jerking him slowly, and wrapped the other hand over Luc’s mouth, dipping two fingers between Luc’s lips for him to slick them with spit. When sufficiently lubricated, he slipped his hand between their two bodies, and slowly inserted one finger inside Luc. Luc rocked back and forth on the finger, fucking it to the rhythm of Peter’s strokes. Soon, Peter added a second finger, scissoring inside Luc, and Luc wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t bottom. He felt tight in a way that Richard, always more experienced than Peter, never had. He withdrew his fingers and, with urgency, bent Luc over the mattress, kneeling behind him so that they were level. Once again, this meant he couldn’t see Luc’s face, just the misleading hair. Peter’s own cock was already slick from Luc’s blowjob, and he slipped inside Luc with relative ease. He felt Luc’s muscles tighten around him, and without warning, he gasped out “Ricki.” Before he had time to contemplate his mistake, Luc thrust back against him, and Peter let his thoughts succumb to the sensations making his body tingle.


	6. Chapter 6

Once again, he was gone when Peter awoke. That was no surprise, and probably for the best. It didn’t surprise him that he slept so deeply either. He hadn’t needed to be drunk this time, and that was a positive sign, but weeks of exhaustion were now catching up to him. A piss, and then he’d clamber back into bed for a few hours before calling Fawn for the numbers of local motels. Already, Peter was narrowing it down to a low number. There was no way Tarr would be staying anywhere better than the shithole Peter found himself in, unless he’d bedded another woman of high standing.

But first, that piss. He swung his naked legs over the mattress and padded to the bathroom. Luc had not left another note. Just as well. Peter had no intention of seeing him again, now his frustrations had been worked through. Maybe once more before leaving Paris, but let him wait.

When Peter picked his clothes up from their crumpled heap on the floor, he couldn’t help but notice his trousers felt lighter.

Fuck.

“Fawn!” he cried into the telephone receiver just moments later. “I need you to send me some money.”

“What’s happened?” Fawn asked, his voice frustratingly calm.

“My fucking wallet’s been stolen!”

“Okay, Peter, calm down,” Fawn said. “I can get you some money. Now think, what else was in the wallet?”

Peter rubbed at his forehead. “Just… just my driver’s license and a few receipts.”

“And your passport?”

“Still here,” Peter said, after pulling out the drawer of his bedside table. He’d been using his passport as a bookmark in a book he hadn’t touched since the journey to France.

“So they only have your name. There was nothing there to link you to the Circus.”

“They still have my name,” Peter sighed.

Fawn was quiet for a moment. “You were robbed by a fuck, weren’t you?”

“Shut up, Fawn.”

“I’ll stay quiet,” Fawn said, amused. “But will he?”

“Yes, yes I think so,” Peter said. “He probably just wanted the money.” And that would have been why Luc didn’t rob him that first night. Peter had been to the bank between his motel and the café.

“Not to worry then,” Fawn said. “I’ll get you some money sharpish.”

“Thanks, Fawn.”

“Oh, Peter? Richard called.”

With a nonchalance that surprised even himself, Peter said, “tell me later.”

~~~  
As luck would have it, Peter found some spare change in the pocket of his coat. Not much, but enough to buy himself some dinner. Slipping on his coat, he decided to return to the café. Luc wouldn’t dare return after stealing from him, and even if he did, it would give Peter the opportunity to punch him in the face.

Peter chose the table closest to the window, the one Luc sat at the night before, ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, and ate in silence. He watched, through the window, for a flash of blond hair in the crowds outside, on the lookout for both Luc and Tarr, but neither appeared. _Good_ , Peter thought. _Fuck them both._ He decided, then, that he would call Smiley in the morning, tell him he was coming home and that he could send someone else after Tarr. The difficulty would be in explaining how Peter knew of the mission before Smiley had briefed him, but Fawn could handle that.

Peter dumped his remaining cash on the table and exited before the owners had the chance to collect it. If his money didn’t cover the cost of the meal, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if Peter would be returning there anyway. On his way back to the motel, he passed the pub again. He stopped, lit up a cigarette, and leaned against the wall of the building. It wouldn’t hurt to go in one last time. If nothing else, the bartender would be likely to offer him a free drink. Peter flicked the ash from his cigarette into the snow, and took in another drag as he stepped inside.

It was still reasonably early, and the place was quiet. Three elderly men occupied a table in the corner, while a woman (the bartender’s English wife?) wiped glasses. The bartender himself was stood on a stool, arms stretched above his head to adjust a clock. He lost his footing as he stepped down, and Peter rushed over to assist.

“My friend!” the bartender cried when he saw Peter’s face. “Come, meet my wife.”

Peter followed the bartender to the bar and nodded courteously as he introduced his wife, Gillian. Then, the bartender offered him a drink on the house, just as Peter had hoped, and Peter engaged in an awkward conversation with Gillian about England, much to the delight of the bartender.

When Gillian disappeared to collect more glasses, the bartender leaned in close to Peter.

“The Englishman returned earlier today.”

Peter set down his drink and looked up at the bartender, saying nothing.

“He asked me if I’d seen a man called Peter,” the bartender said, his eyes wide with excitement. “And I remembered your message, so I told him to smile.”

“What did he do?” Peter asked.

“Nothing,” the bartender said. “He just left. But I am sure he was your friend. He may come back tomorrow!”

Peter gulped down the last few mouthfuls of his drink and stood. “Thank you,” he said. “You have been most helpful.”


	7. Chapter 7

His fist flew through the air at the sight of him. As Peter opened the door to his motel room, he saw a flash of blond hair in the moonlight, and rage overwhelmed him. His fist connected with a cheek, and the figure tumbled back onto his lumpy mattress.

“Mr Guillam.”

Peter’s fist was half-raised to strike again when he heard the voice, but now it froze, suspended in mid-air and shaking, as he took in familiar eyes, broad shoulders, his name spoken with a flair of sarcasm he knew only too well.

And in any other circumstance, he probably would have allowed his fist to meet Ricki Tarr’s face again, but these punches were meant for Luc. Peter dropped his fist and turned away.

“You’ve been making a bit of noise,” Tarr said, and Peter could hear him pulling himself up from the mattress. “Banging the drum, as it were.”

 _Remember Peter, don’t bang the drum._ Smiley’s voice echoed in his ears, and Peter laughed; a low, deep chuckle that burned at the back of his throat.

“You knew I was here this whole time,” he said, still facing away.

“I suspected Mr Smiley would send someone after me,” Tarr said. “Didn’t count on it being you. Could you pass me that mug?”

Peter’s gaze flicked to the small, cracked mug on his dresser, then picked it up and tossed it on the mattress. It took all his self-control not to hurl it at Tarr’s head.

“So what have you been doing this whole time? Watching me run myself ragged and laughing from the shadows?”

Tarr slipped a bottle of something from inside his pocket – brown, probably whiskey – and poured into the mug. With one hand, he held the mug out to Peter, and the other raised the bottle to his lips. Peter didn’t accept the drink, was too angry and exhausted to even consider it, so Tarr shrugged and downed the mug-full too.

“You have so little faith in my integrity, Mr Guillam,” Tarr teased. “In truth, I heard through the grapevine that you had been asking after me at that little tavern a few streets away. Well, at the time, I didn’t know who Smiley had sent to retrieve me, so I had a friend check you out.”

“Luc.”

Tarr nodded. “Out-of-work actor. Did you like the hair? I cut it myself. It’s not my most subtle plan, but I thought it would get your attention.”

That ache of exhaustion from the past few days had returned to Peter’s joints. His shoulders felt heavy and his knees weak. He needed to sit, but there was no seating in the room aside from the floor or the bed. The floor would allow Tarr to tower over him, to dominate, and Peter wouldn’t allow that. Reluctantly, and with an unsteady step towards the mattress, Peter sat down next to Tarr.

“Did you ask Luc to steal from me too?”

Tarr reached into his pocket and slipped out his wallet, tossing it into Peter’s lap. “Nothing’s missing, except the money for this bottle,” he said, shaking the whiskey still in his hand. “I just wanted to check your identity.”

“Okay, fuck this,” Peter snapped. “I am fucking exhausted, as you can probably tell, and I’m not interested in whatever games you want to play right now. So I’m going to get in bed and sleep.” He picked up one of his pillows and tossed it at Tarr. “Here’s a pillow, use my coat as a blanket. You can explain your oh-so brilliant scheme when we wake up.”

“…Mr Guillam?”

“The floor is more than adequate, Ricki. I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable there.”

And with that, Peter threw himself back against the pillow, cocooned the duvet around himself, and scowled as he squeezed his eyes shut.

~~~  
When Peter woke, it was to a black sky and the slump of heavy weight on the end of his mattress. He’d have only been asleep two hours at the most, but if Tarr’s wide, bloodshot eyes were any indication, he’d spent that time polishing off that bottle.

“Irina’s dead,” Tarr said, looking down at his hands. Peter shifted onto his back, not speaking, just letting Tarr know he was awake and listening. “I’ve known for a while, since before we caught Haydon, probably.”

Tarr looked over at Peter, eyes locking, and Peter lay still, just watching. Ricki Tarr was unpredictable, there was no telling whether Peter should pity him or fear him.

“I couldn’t give up though,” he continued. “You won’t know what it’s like, Mr Guillam, to suddenly be alone. Deluding yourself into thinking there’s still hope.”

Peter remembered Fawn’s phone call, and the message from Richard. Why hadn’t he wanted to hear it?

His thoughts were once again interrupted by Tarr. “I suppose I came to my senses, and that’s when I called Smiley. He more-or-less confirmed for me that Prideaux saw her executed, and that was that.”

“Why did you talk to Smiley?” Peter asked. “You must have had another reason.”

“I thought that, if Smiley knew where I was, he’d send somebody after me, and I could get my revenge.” Tarr sighed. “I didn’t want to hurt Smiley, and I knew he wouldn’t come himself or send Fawn. I didn’t expect him to send you.”

“What difference does it make?” Peter spat, angry once again. “Whoever he sent, it’s an unjust revenge. The Circus didn’t kill her.”

“The Circus didn’t do enough to save her, either.”

Peter threw the cover back, and with a howl of rage, dived on Tarr. He wrestled him back on the mattress – Tarr was physically stronger but alcohol had made him sluggish. He pinned Tarr’s wrists above his head with one hand, the other delivering blow after blow to Tarr’s stomach. Tarr laughed, wheezy and breathless, before he raised a leg and kicked against Peter’s abdomen, sending him flying to the floor. Peter grabbed Tarr’s ankles, dragging him to the ground with him, and grappled with Tarr’s strong build, trying to pin him down and punching when he couldn’t. All the while, Tarr carried on laughing.

“Shut up,” Peter growled through clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Tarr said. “Just remembering the old days.”

Peter pushed back from Tarr and reclined against the cold wall underneath the window frame. He waited, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, as Tarr struggled upright, leaning back against the bed and panting.

“Can I be honest with you, Mr Guillam?” Tarr asked.

“That would be a novelty.”

Tarr offered a polite chuckle, but very soon his face fell solemn and his shoulders hunched. “I didn’t love Irina. I just loved the idea of saving her.”

“Every man wants to be a hero,” Peter nodded.

“And punishing the Circus for my failure seemed easier than punishing myself,” Tarr said.

“Well, I’m here,” Peter said, opening his arms. “Take your revenge.”

Tarr shook his head. “Not you, Mr Guillam. Sending you on a wild goose chase was enough.”

Peter’s gaze flicked down to his hands, and to a long, thin graze on his thumb from where it scratched against Luc’s zipper.

“How did you know about me?” he asked, quietly.

“Pardon?”

“Luc. You could have just had him get me drunk and rob me,” Peter’s quiet mumble was now descending into a whisper. “How much did you pay him to sleep with me?"

Tarr was quiet for a long moment, and still Peter stared at his hands.

“I didn’t,” Tarr said, and stood up. “I’ve learned something new about two of my friends tonight.”

“Ricki…”

“I should leave,” Tarr’s hand was already on the door handle. “Don’t worry, Mr Guillam. I’m good at keeping secrets. And I’ll be back.”


	8. Chapter 8

The first day after Tarr disappeared; Peter whiled away the hours in his motel room, reluctant to even step out for food in case he missed his return. That night, he dreamed again, but this time it was distinctly Tarr’s face he saw, Tarr’s lips he kissed, Tarr’s hands on his skin. On the second morning, he woke up hard, and frantically tugged himself to orgasm before dashing out for a few basic foods he could prepare in his room. His afternoon passed by staring idly at his book, but memories of grappling with Tarr awakened certain urges, and four times he abandoned his book to indulge himself, each time more rushed and frantic, in case Tarr walked in.

On the third day, he telephoned Fawn, but received no answer. He received no call from Smiley, either, despite the deadline having passed for passing information along. Smiley must have known Fawn had already set the plan in motion.

It was 3am on the fourth day when Peter heard a bang on his door. He hurried to dress himself: not much, an unfastened shirt and his trousers, but enough to protect his modesty.

“Fuck,” Peter gasped as he opened the door.

Tarr leaned against his doorframe, eye swollen with the hint of a forming bruise. His bottom lip had split, although it was no longer bleeding, and droplets of blood had blossomed into patterns on the collar of his shirt. Beneath his cuff, Peter could see that his knuckles were red and bleeding.

“You should see the other chap,” Tarr joked. “Oh, you have.”

Tarr pushed past Peter and into the room, limping a little as he walked. Peter closed the door behind him, the creak of the hinges echoing through the empty hallway.

“What do you mean?”

“Fucking you wasn’t part of the deal,” Tarr hissed. “Now, I’ve done some things in my time for information, but he crossed a line.”

Peter sighed. “You knocked seven bells out of Luc.”

“You know what? You can shag as many blokes as you like. I’m hardly fit to judge you,” Tarr snapped, his swollen face now red with anger, “but I had a deal. I didn’t pay him to do that to you.”

“So you decided to solve it with your fists.”

“Only following your example, sir.” Tarr spat the last word out like a foul taste, and Peter felt the tiny spray of saliva against his face.

“Let me help you clean up,” Peter said. “You’ll get arrested out on the street like that, and that’s the last thing we need.”

To Peter’s surprise, Tarr allowed himself to be led to the bathroom, where the harsh fluorescent bulb highlighted the intensity of Tarr’s injuries. Along with his eye and lip, there was a thick graze on his forehead, his hairline matted with dried blood. A purple bruise darkened the right side of his jaw, and tiny, crescent moon-shaped cuts littered his cheek.

“Jesus Christ, Tarr,” Peter said, and he blinked twice at the sight. “Thank you for defending my honour and everything, but…”

“Your honour had nothing to do with it, sir.”

“Of course,” Peter conceded. He turned to the sink, and dampened the motel-provided washcloth with cold water.

“Shit, is that what I look like?” Tarr asked, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror. Peter chose not to answer.

“Keep still,” he said, choosing to tackle the cut on his forehead first. The graze wasn’t serious, and a few wipes cleared away most of the dried blood on his scalp. Peter rinsed the washcloth, then pressed it against Tarr’s eye. Tarr let out a pained hiss at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

“Smiley wants you to come back to England,” Peter said.

“And why would I do that?” Tarr asked.

“It’d be safer for you there than out here,” Peter said. “The Circus no longer considers you a threat.”

“What fate awaits me there? Will I be pushed aside and forgotten about like Jim Prideaux?”

“Lord knows you won’t be a scalphunter again,” Peter chuckled, “but Smiley says you can be of use. I don’t know any more than that.”

“No.”

Peter pulled the washcloth away. “You won’t even consider it?”

“I’m grateful to Smiley for everything, but I’ve no desire to go back.”

“Ricki…”

The meeting of their lips was frantic. Tarr’s head darted forwards, bumping noses with Peter but catching Peter’s bottom lip between his. Peter felt Tarr’s jagged wound scrape against his lips, and then his back bump against the basin as Tarr took Peter’s hips into his hands and manoeuvred into his personal space. After a moment, Peter closed his eyes, and allowed his hands to travel up Tarr’s back. But no sooner did Peter fist his hand into Tarr’s shirt did Tarr push a hand against Peter’s chest and back away.

“I thought that might shut you up,” Tarr said. “Thank you for the help, Mr Guillam. Perhaps I’ll see you again before you leave Paris.”

Peter gripped the basin to steady his legs, and made no attempt to follow Tarr as he left.

~~~  
“He’s refusing to come home.”

Fawn’s sigh crackled down the line. “I expected as much. Alright, Smiley says to come back.”

“Are you serious?” Peter cried. “You send me all the way out here to find him, and just because he says ‘no’, I give up?”

“We trust you did everything you could to convince him,” Fawn said. “You sound tired, Peter.”

“Listen, Tarr said he might see me before I leave. I assume that means he’s coming back.”

“But why, when he’s already refused?”

“No idea,” Peter admitted, “but it makes me think he’s not as vehemently opposed to returning as we might think. I’ll stay a few more days.”

“Okay, I’ll tell George,” Fawn said. “But if he still refuses, come back. Smiley will go after him.”

“No. George shouldn’t come out here just for Tarr, unless-“

“…Peter?”

“Why is George so desperate to get Tarr back anyway?” Peter asked. “What do we need him for?”

Another sigh. “Some… bad apples, shall we call them? They know Tarr’s somewhere in Paris, and George is worried they’ll go after him. After Tarr helped us, George has become quite concerned with keeping him safe.”

Peter remembered Tarr’s face the night before. Peter may have been able to attest to Luc’s aggressive behaviour, but there was no way Luc would be able to inflict such damage on a man like Tarr alone.

“Fawn, they might have already found him,” Peter said. “When I saw Tarr last night, he’d been beaten. He tried to pass it off as nothing but the result of a scrap, but-“

“Can you be sure it wasn’t?”

“Well, no.”

“Okay. Well, sit tight. Give it three days. If Tarr doesn’t return, we’ll work out another course of action.”

“Okay,” Peter said. He listened to Fawn say his goodbyes, then a memory struck him. “Fawn?”

“Yes?”

“You said you had a message. From Richard.”

“Oh yes,” Fawn said. “Just a moment.” Peter heard the sound of rustling. “He gave me a contact number, asked you to call him.”

“Thank you, Fawn.”

~~~  
The call to Richard was quicker, and less painful, than Peter could have expected. Richard wanted to reconcile, and, to Peter’s surprise, he didn’t. He missed Richard, of course, but the business with Haydon made him realise how dangerous his life could be. Richard was a good man, he didn’t deserve to be lied to any longer. The encounters with Luc and confusing feelings about Tarr had nothing to do with it.

It had now been two days since Peter spoke to Fawn, and Peter had taken the opportunity to finally have a holiday. He visited the tourist spots, let himself relax, and felt strangely empty inside. He had actually enjoyed himself more when on the search. But then, Peter always needed to feel useful. Eventually, he busied himself with packing up his belongings and cleaning his motel room. The cleaning wasn’t required of him, but he needed something to keep his hands working.

He was in the bathroom, scrubbing at the sink with gloved hands, when the knock came. He removed the gloves and tossed them aside, wiping his hands on his trousers. They were dry, but the feel of water against the rubber of the gloves was deceptive. Next, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He wore no tie, but his shirt was neat enough to give the air of superiority. More than any other time, he was not going to let his guard down around Ricki Tarr.

Finally, he pushed his packed suitcase underneath the bed. He didn’t want to give the impression that he had been waiting around for Tarr, but he was also just looking for things to do. Peter didn’t want to be too eager to answer the door for Tarr, after all.

Tarr knocked for the fourth time, and Peter suspected he’d be considering leaving by this point. This was the time to answer, to catch him a little off-guard. He’d have the advantage over Tarr that way.

His suspicions proved correct, as when Peter opened the door, Tarr was halfway down the corridor.

“Are you coming in?” Peter called after him. Tarr stopped in his tracks.

“Mr Guillam,” he said, turning. “I was starting to think you’d left already.”

“No such luck,” Peter said, and stepped back into his room. “Come in,” he called out.

Peter was already pouring into two mugs as he heard Tarr close the door behind him. He held out one to Tarr. “Just water, I’m afraid. Your face is healing well.”

“Thanks,” Tarr said, and gulped down the water. Peter was right: the swelling on Tarr’s eye had reduced dramatically, although the skin was now a deep purple. The cuts on his forehead and cheek had practically healed, though his bruised jaw and busted lip remained.

“Didn’t realise Luc was so strong,” Peter said, keeping his voice light.

“You’d know,” Tarr scoffed.

“Who attacked you, Ricki?” Peter asked, and Tarr took a seat on the mattress.

“None of your business,” Tarr said. “I’m ready.”

“What are you talking about?” Peter sat beside Tarr, setting his cup on the bedside table. Standing would give him more dominance, but Tarr didn’t seem to be in too difficult a mood.

“My bags are at a friend’s. We can leave in the morning.”

“You’re coming back to England? Why?”

Tarr shrugged. “I see no reason to stay. Sorry for leaving you in the lurch, I had to tie up some business.” A grin spread across his face. “Besides, it’s quite fun to watch you get frustrated.”

“If you weren’t already black and blue, I would punch you in the face,” Peter said, but he still laughed.

“You’ve got what you wanted, sir. Can’t we have a nice last night in Paris together?” Tarr asked, and fluttered his eyelashes mockingly.

Peter’s smile fell. “I wouldn’t describe any night with you as ‘nice’, Tarr. So why did you change your mind?”

“I stayed in Paris after Haydon for Irina,” Tarr said. “I may have thought she was dead, but while I didn’t know for sure, there was still hope.”

“Even though you didn’t love her.”

“I didn’t realise that right away. Anyway, when Smiley confirmed she was dead, it cemented for me that I had no place here. If I didn’t go back to England, I’d only run somewhere else.” His speech sounded so rehearsed, so carefully chosen, that Peter suspected Tarr had planned out this entire conversation. His stomach leapt a little at the thought of Tarr practicing what to say to him, but then he cursed himself for thinking like one of the Circus receptionists.

“And the people after you?” Peter asked, unable to hold back his curiosity any longer.

“Don’t get so hot and bothered. I just owe them some money. They’ll forget about it soon enough.”

“That’s not nearly exciting enough,” Peter said, and Tarr smiled again. They sat in silence for a while, side by side on the edge of Peter’s bed, and it was awkward and dragging. Peter waited, hoping Tarr had some more of his speech planned, but when nothing was forthcoming, Peter was forced to break the silence. “Are you still mad, about Irina?”

“No, probably not.”

“What about me? Are you mad that I’m…” he trailed off, still unable to say the word, despite having all but confirmed the fact three nights ago.

“What, a poof? Believe me, sir, I have plenty of reasons to hate you, but that’s not one of them.” Tarr’s grin turned sly. “In case you didn’t notice, I kissed you.”

“I remember,” Peter said, willing his cheeks not to flush pink. “I suspected you just wanted to catch me off guard.”

“I did. But I may have had other motivations.”

It was Peter who initiated this kiss. Fleeting and rushed, he barely grazed Tarr’s lips with his. He was just testing the waters, he told himself.

“Mr Guillam,” Tarr teased, “you are very quick to assume.”

“Peter,” Peter corrected. “Am I wrong?”

Tarr’s hand snaked over Peter’s thigh, coming to rest at the fold where his thigh and groin met. Peter sat rigid as Tarr applied pressure, looking up at him through thick eyelashes. Peter’s hand curled in Tarr’s hair, pulling Tarr’s face to meet his neck. Tarr mouthed against Peter’s Adam’s apple, and shifted his hand to cup Peter’s crotch through his trousers. He pressed the heel of his palm against it, causing Peter’s mouth to fall open with a soft moan. Tarr used the opportunity to seize Peter’s mouth, tongue thrust deep inside and wrestling with Peter’s own. Peter thrust up into Tarr’s grip before pushing his hand away, instead scrabbling to unfasten his own belt.

Tarr stood from his position on the bed, still keeping his mouth locked on Peter’s, and made swift work of the buttons on his jacket and shirt. When they were discarded, Peter broke the kiss to admire Tarr’s body. His torso, like his face, was littered with bruises, and Peter became fixated with one just above his navel. He pressed a wet kiss over the spot, tongue leaving a trail of saliva over the darkened skin, and he felt Tarr shudder at his touch. Peter continued to kiss a path up Tarr’s sternum before he caught one of Tarr’s nipples between his teeth and gave it a sharp tug. Tarr’s cry was music to his ears.

Peter’s hands grappled with Tarr’s fly, but soon Tarr’s trousers and underwear pooled around his ankles, exposing his erection (shorter than Peter’s, but with a much more impressive girth), and he grabbed Tarr’s hips, turning them and throwing him back so he lay against the mattress. Peter kissed back down the wet path he’d just made on Tarr’s torso, pausing to tongue inside his navel, then dropped to his knees, raking his teeth up one of Tarr’s thighs. Tarr groaned Peter’s name – not “Mr Guillam” or “sir”, but “Peter”, and fisted his hands in the blankets. Peter let the tip of his tongue trail up Tarr’s shaft, teasing at the head and spreading the leak of pre-come over it. He slipped one hand beneath his now-unfastened fly and gripped himself, stroking slowly as the head of Tarr’s cock slipped past his lips.

Peter felt the corner of his lips pull tight as he struggled to take in Tarr’s girth, but soon his mouth adjusted, and he established a swift rhythm. One of Tarr’s hands curled in his hair, angling Peter, and Peter watched through heavy eyelids as Tarr’s mouth fell open, back arching off the bed.

Peter pulled away and stood before long. Tarr’s cock was hard and red, and slick with Peter’s spit, and Tarr’s hand automatically travelled towards it, but Peter slapped it away.

“Watch,” Peter ordered, and Tarr pulled himself up on his elbows, watching as Peter removed first his shirt, and then his trousers. Naked, Peter stepped forward, resting his thumb between Tarr’s lips.

“You ever sucked anyone off, Tarr?”

“Maybe,” Tarr smirked. And then he winked.

 _Little shit_ , Peter thought, but then Tarr got to work. He went for the balls first, and Peter couldn’t help but note that his technique was similar to Luc’s. It wouldn’t surprise Peter if Tarr had taught Luc this little trick, if Tarr had paid Luc to sleep with him after all. He couldn’t dwell on that thought for much longer, though, as without warning, Tarr took Peter’s whole length in his mouth. And this was new. Nobody had ever deep-throated Peter before, and as the head of his cock slammed against the back of Tarr’s throat, he felt his knees give way. Tarr anticipated the fall, and gripped Peter’s arse cheeks in both hands, nails digging deep into the skin. Peter thrust deep into Tarr’s mouth, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back. He felt his balls tightening, and his hips started to jerk erratically. At once, Tarr pulled his mouth away.

“Come on me,” Tarr ordered, his hands still gripping Peter’s arse. Peter nodded, fisting his dick once again. He jerked, overcome with lust as Tarr closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Suddenly, he felt a finger press at his entrance, and lights exploded behind his eyes as he shot out. His hands grabbed at Tarr’s shoulders to steady himself as he rode out his orgasm, before he opened his eyes and dove forwards, desperate to taste himself on Tarr’s skin. He straddled Tarr’s legs as his tongue lapped up the come covering Ricki’s eyelids, and then he kissed Ricki again, sharing the taste with him. Tarr rutted his own erection against Peter’s body as they kissed, and when Peter turned his head to bite down on Tarr’s collarbone, Tarr whispered:

“May I fuck you, Mr Guillam, sir?”

“I told you to call me Peter,” he groaned.

“Fine,” Tarr said, “may I fuck you, Peter, sir?”

“One condition,” Peter bargained. “When we get back to England, I get to fuck you in the Circus lift.”

Tarr made a show of considering for a moment. “Agreed,” he said at last. 

Peter locked eyes with Tarr and took two fingers into his mouth. After slicking them with spit, he lifted himself up onto his knees, and slipped one, then two fingers inside himself. Slowly at first, he rocked back on his fingers. As his muscles adjusted to the intrusion, Peter scissored the fingers inside him, as wide as he could stretch them, to compensate for Tarr’s thick cock, Tarr kissing at his abdomen all the while.

Eventually, Peter removed his fingers, and went to get off Tarr’s lap and get on all fours. Tarr halted him.

“No,” he said. “Like this.”

Peter grinned, and once again raised himself to his knees. Tarr angled himself against his entrance, and Peter eased himself down until his arse met with Tarr’s hips. Peter held on to Tarr’s shoulders for balance as he raised and lowered himself on Tarr’s shaft, while Tarr’s hands pressed into the mattress for stability. They rocked together, slow rhythm soon giving way to frantic, desperate thrusts, and their moans and gasps were punctuated by kisses to any patch of skin they could access. And, as Peter felt the force of Tarr’s orgasm inside him, the cool January air from the crack in the window hit his sweat-drenched skin and made him shiver.


End file.
